Athlidhrael

The hooves of the war-horse kicked up large patches of turf from the moist ground of the forest as she rode by, uncaring of the track she was leaving in the lush green grass of the slopes. She steered the horse with a speed caused by urgency, never leaving her course.
The season was ending; already the branches of the nearby forest were dripping with mist and the air had taken on a chill in the mornings, cool air rolling in from the sea.

Amongst the people of Middle Earth, none are as sensitive, arguably, than the elusive elves. Of course, there are exceptions, on both ends of the proverbial scale. War will do that, to even the bravest of souls. On one of the ends of the scales, was a relatively young soul by the name of Gliriel, which in her native tongue meant: Daughter of Song. Indeed, her voice was exquisite to the ear.

 Greetings everyone. Thank you very much for coming to our betrothal-feast. It truly means a lot to Athlïdhraél and I that you all found the time to join us at this cheerful occasion.

((Music by Thao Nguyen Xanh. This piece is only used for private, non-profit purposes. No copyright intended.))

Low Hollin, Fourth Age 72

 For quite a while, I have kept my concerns in my head and heart. Perhaps writing them down will help me process what has happened last days.